Moloch!

This fabric can’t breakdown
the struggle like concealed bleeding
is crying narcotics, telling me that
poetry is prior to opinion
sympathy is all fantasy
and sex is the flower.
I sign silent touching whose secret will litter
our bitter end, suddenly unnatural
that full, grand Melbourne fuck.
But before we fucked
and her love finally tied
in translucent, literal contrast
where my abject conclusion died,
the automatic carnal only speaks of when we first met
in that afterward afternoon sun.